


In Their Blood

by HushedSong



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Novelization, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Swearing, additional warnings will be in chapter notes when applicable, buckle up kids this is gonna be long, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-02-01 22:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HushedSong/pseuds/HushedSong
Summary: The Grey Wardens have long recruited thieves, murderers, and outcasts into their order. When facing a threat as immense as a Blight and a corrupted old god, what should it matter who wields the blade? This is the story of Cerynth Tabris, Erida Brosca, Theron Mahariel, and Nari Surana as they fight for a country and a world that has never fought for them.A novelization of Origins in which all possible origins survive (though not all are recruited).





	1. Cerynth's Wedding, Part 1

It’s too cold. Papa says it’s spring and they shouldn’t need to have a fire burning through the night, says it’s wasteful, which she knows it is, but that doesn’t make waking up from the cold less awful. Cerynth rolls over, scrunching, trying to get warm again, when she realizes why it’s so freezing--Shianni’s gone. She turns onto her back and sees the top bunk isn’t sagging. Soris must be up too.

Before her groggy mind can connect these pieces, Shianni zips around the corner, already dressed with her hair tied into sections. “Time to wake up already, Cer! It’s your big day!”

Cerynth sits up, blinking slowly, legs curling into her chest, trying to keep any warmth she can. She hears Shianni speaking but isn’t ready to listen quite yet. Too early. “Did I oversleep? Why didn’t you wake me up? Or Soris?”

“Uncle Cyrion and I thought you deserved it. Wait--you do know what today is, don’t you?” Shianni’s eyes shine. Her voice is too loud for the tiny room.

“Get drunk before noon day?” Cerynth asks, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“No, stupid! You and Soris are getting married today! I mean not to each other--that would--you know what I mean.” Shianni hiccups. “Nelaros and Valora arrived early from Highever!”

“Wait--today? How--I’m not ready!” Not worried about the cold anymore, Cerynth springs out of bed, the rough wood floor of their tiny home scratching her feet as she digs through a crate beside the bed, looking for the hairbrush she and Shianni share. Two weeks--she was supposed to have two more weeks!

“I thought Uncle Cyrion told you last night?” Before Cerynth can say anything her cousin leans around the flimsy slab of wood that separates the the area where the cousins sleep from the rest of the one room home. “Uncle Cyrion! Why didn’t you tell Cer last night?”

Cerynth ignores her cousin as she finally finds the brush. With difficulty, she pulls it through her hair, tangled from sleep. She hadn’t bothered to braid it before she collapsed into bed last night, and she is paying for it now. She tries to work quickly, but it’s a bit useless since the handle’s been broken off since she was nine and Shianni hit Soris over the head with it.

Papa’s voice comes from beyond the makeshift wall, unmuffled by the thin wood. “I’m afraid I fell asleep before she came home last night.”

Shianni looks at her cousin as though it’s her own wedding being ruined. “I thought you were just selling elfroot in the market yesterday. Why’d you come home so late?”

Cerynth keeps yanking the brush through her hair, from her scalp all the way down to the ends at her waist. “Some shem tried to follow me. I had to lose him first.” She yanks harder, tries not to think about hands gripping her arm, pulling her ears, clumsy lips against her neck before she grabs his fingers and  _ bends _ . No hesitating, pulling back until she hears a crack, just like Mother taught her. Heel to instep, knee to groin, elbow to the back of the neck when he bends over. She tries not to curse how stupid that was, how  _ of course _ he called for the guard and  _ of course _ she had to hide in an alley for an hour until the coast was clear enough for her to run back to the Alienage with the four coppers she’d made that day. She’d thought about taking what she could from his pockets, but then he would almost have certainly brought guards to the Alienage for his due. A few coppers aren’t worth that.

She wishes she had enough time for a bath before getting married, but there’s no way she can haul enough water in time. “So where is Soris anyway?”

Shianni giggles. “He’s so nervous he couldn’t sleep. Woke up before the sun, spent an hour fussing over his hair then left the house sweating worse than a shem.”

Cerynth laughs weakly as she tries to braid back her hair, but her fingers are shaking so badly she keeps messing up.

Shianni leans over her cousin, grinning. “And it looks like you’re getting there.”

Letting her hair fall back into her face with a frustrated huff, Cerynth glares up at Shianni. “What sane person wouldn’t be nervous if they woke up and’re told they’ll be getting married all of a sudden?”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop  _ tormenting  _ you.” 

Shianni raises her voice on the big word, probably one she’s learned from Valendrian. Ever since Papa told her that it’s maybe best if she doesn’t go to the market anymore (after she threw a fish head at some shem merchant for grabbing her arse and got slapped with a fine it took Cerynth a year of hawking elfroot and rough-carved wood toys to pay off), she’s been spending a lot of time with Valendrian, learning big words like “tormenting” and “proselytize” and “oppression.”

“I’ll just go get cleaned up and find my bridesmaid’s dress,” Shianni says as she leaves the house, leaning a bit too far to the side. Lightweight.

Cerynth’s shoulders slump in relief. She loves her cousin, she does, but Shianni’s been a huge pain in the arse since word came through from Highever of the engagements.  Highever’s Hahren would send matches for Cerynth and Soris, but couldn’t spare any more young men, and so there would be no one this year for Shianni. She’d spent the winter alternating between drinking, sulking, and  _ tormenting _ Cerynth and Soris, sometimes all three at once. Cerynth told her over and over again that she’d switch places if Papa and Valendrian would let her. It would make more sense anyways. Cerynth is seventeen, she can get married next year (she would prefer to wait another year, actually), but Shianni is twenty-two and jobless. She doesn’t have much longer. Cerynth doesn’t say that part though. From the way Shianni drinks, she already knows.

Papa stands at the doorway long enough to set down a jug of water, a clean cloth, and a slice of dry bread. He smiles but doesn’t speak before going back to the main room, and Cerynth notices the creases at his mouth and eyes, the gray hairs outnumbering the red ones, and feels as though the changes have happened all of the sudden even though she knows that’s not true. She chokes down the bread and a bit of water and washes quickly with the damp cloth, trying not to think about how tomorrow she won’t be a child anymore, but Shianni still will be.

After she finishes washing, she moves to the chest pushed against the wall. It holds the clothes of everyone in their house. For the past week Soris’ and her wedding clothes have been sitting on top, wrapped in brown paper, not letting either of them forget the coming day. Now, Soris’ aren’t there anymore. 

Cerynth lifts her dress out carefully, the paper crackling like firewood. Gently, she runs her fingers over the scraps of brightly colored cloth sewn along the neckline and hem, sky blue and fire yellow and Vhenadahl green and purple almost the color of her eyes. Soft cotton slips over her body, settling just past the crest of her shoulders, leaving her collar bones exposed. She ties the matching sash around her waist, again wishing she had the time to take a proper bath. The nicest dress she’ll ever own, and it has to touch her dirty skin. She slips on her only pair of boots, which look even dirtier next to the new dress. Sighing, knowing there’s nothing for it, she perches on the edge of her bed and tries again to braid her hair.

After a few more tries she swears loudly and buries her face in her hands. She wants to get married, she does, just maybe not  _ right now _ . 

She doesn’t look up as Papa sits down next to her on her bed, ducking so he doesn’t hit his head on the upper bunk. He cards his fingers gently through her hair, separating strands and tugging them into place. “Your mother would be so proud of you, you know.”

Cerynth slowly lets her hands fall and lets Papa guide her into a better posture so he can reach the strands around her face. “I wish she could be here,” she murmurs.

“I know, Cery.” He hooks a finger around her chin and turns her to face him. She feels the slight tremor in his hands as he pulls a bit of her black hair in front of each of her ears, pulling strand over strand until a tiny braid hangs on either side of her face. “You look just like her.” 

Cerynth stands up quickly, turning away to hide the welling tears. She’s getting married soon, she can’t be crying. No good meeting her husband-to-be with puffy eyes. She runs her fingers softly over her hair, feeling many loose braids pulling together into a bun at the nape of her neck. “Thank you, Papa. It’s lovely.”

“I have one more thing for you.” Cerynth hears him move into the main room and she takes a moment to rub her eyes. She can do this. It will be good, it’s just the build up that’s getting to her. 

When she enters the main room she sees Papa holding a pair of boots. Not just any boots, nice leather boots with buckles and thick soles. She’s seen boots like those at shem merchant stalls in the market place. Only from a distance though--any merchant who sells goods that nice shoos away any elves who get close. “How--where did you get those?”

Some of the sadness seems to flee from his eyes as he gives the boots to her. “They were your mother’s. I think she would want you to have them.”

Cerynth just nods (if she speaks she thinks she’ll start crying for real this time), and unlaces her own dirty, worn-through shoes. As she pulls on her mother’s boots (wool-lined, Maker’s breath), Papa clears his throat and his ears straighten in a way that Cerynth knows means he’s about to order her to do something and pray to the Maker she chooses to listen.

“When you meet your betrothed--maybe it’s best not to talk about the things your mother taught you. How to fight, use a blade, that sort of thing.”

Cerynth cocks an ear in confusion. “What do you mean? Why?”

“Well, that sort of thing would’ve made it hard to find a match for you, so...Valendrian and I agreed not to mention it when we sent word to Highever’s Hahren.” Papa puts a hand on Cerynth’s shoulder, trying to make her understand. “It makes us look like troublemakers. It’s for the best if you keep it to yourself for now.”

“I--” Cerynth cuts off and swallows hard. She knows why they hid what she can do, but, especially standing in her mother’s boots, with her hair braided the way hers used to be, it feels like an insult to her memory. 

 

_ “Your stance is too wide, and you need to keep your elbows in. You’re practically shouting your every move before you make it.” _

_ Cerynth, all of six years old, huffed in frustration before fixing her stance, tightening her grip on a wooden dowel that was supposed to stand in for a dagger. She darted forward and jabbed the sack of cornmeal she was using as a training dummy.  _

_ “Don’t bend your wrist like that, Cerynth! Do you want it to break?” _

_ Cerynth, tired and fed-up, flopped to the ground and hurled the dowel away. “It’s too hard. I’m taking a break.” _

_ Mother picked up the dowel where it had landed before coming to kneel next to her daughter. “I know it’s hard, Cery, but I need you to learn this.” _

_ “Why can’t I just play knights and bandits with the other kids? It’s not like I’m ever going to use this stuff anyways.” She stuck out her lower lip and widened her already huge violet eyes in a way that made most grown-ups scramble to grant her every wish. “Soris’ pa made him a wooden sword and shield for his birthday. I think it would be more fun learning how to use those.” _

_ Mother’s lips twisted, her ears twitching downwards. Cerynth’s eyes had never worked on Mother, maybe because hers were the same. “Cerynth, I need you to listen to me, because this is important. We are elves, and beyond these walls,” Her hand swept just short of skyward to the walls that Cerynth had yet to realize protected her as much as they caged her. “We are not knights. We are bandits, thieves, criminals. It doesn’t matter if we stole anything or broke any law, to them, that’s what we are. An elf that wields a sword or shield outside these walls will be killed.” _

_ “But that’s not--that’s just not fair! I want to be a knight! I want to be the hero!” _

_ Mother wiped the tears from Cerynth’s eyes and smoothed down her hair, pitch-dark like hers, so different from the shining red of the rest of the family. “No, love, it’s not fair. But I need you to remember that bandits can be heroes and knights can be monsters. I don’t want you to be the kind of hero that dies tragic and young. You are going to be the hero that lives free and happy.” She pressed the wooden dowel back into Cerynth’s hands. “While shem’len call us knife-ears, knives must be our weapons. We must be our  _ own  _ heroes, no matter what they call us. Do you understand me, Cery?” _

_ Cerynth didn’t understand, not yet, but she took the dowel, and she practiced until she got it right. _

 

“Yes, Papa,” says Cerynth, gripping the folds of her skirt as though they are knives. 

“There’s a good girl.” He squeezes her shoulder once before letting go. “I need to speak to Valendrian before the ceremony. Why don’t you find Soris? Maybe you can calm him down a bit.”

“I will. There’s just one more thing I need to take care of here first.”

After her father leaves, Cerynth pulls up the loose floorboard beneath her bed. There’s one more thing Mother left her, one Papa never knew about. A dagger, its sheath engraved with silver letters Cerynth can’t read. She conceals it in her mother’s boot before going to search for Soris. Cerynth tries to pass off the feeling in her gut as simply more anxiety about the wedding, but still can’t stop thinking about Mother, and how she died with her dagger not in her hand, but hidden under the floor.


	2. Cerynth's Wedding, Part 2

After pushing through crowds of tipsy well-wishers, Cerynth weaves through the Alienage’s narrow, winding streets, lifting her skirt and leaping over puddles in an effort to keep her dress and boots clean. Or, as clean as they can be when walking through the muddy streets. 

She finds Soris sitting on top of the roof of a building near the west gate, far from the Vhenadahl, one of the highest points in the Alienage. She easily climbs up too, squatting down next to him. 

“How did you find me?” he asks miserably.

“I showed you this place, idiot.” She prods him. “Can you come down? Everyone wants to know where you are.” 

Soris remains silent, glaring off into space. 

“Soris, you’re acting like a toddler. You’re getting married, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Easy for you to say,” Soris says, still sulking and not budging. “Your betrothed’s like a dream come true. Mine looks like a dying mouse.”

“You’ve seen them? Nelaros is handsome?” She thinks that should make her less nervous, but her stomach twists all the same.

Soris glares at her.

Cerynth rolls her eyes and grabs her cousin’s arm, hauling him to his feet. “C’mon, Soris, chin up. Maybe someone will get you a cage as a wedding present.”

Soris lets out a startled laugh, allowing Cerynth to drag him to the corner of the roof where they can jump down onto a rickety set of stairs that take them back to the Alienage proper. “That’s awful!” he exclaims, but seems more cheerful, anyways.

As they wind their way back to the center of the Alienage, Cerynth keeping a firm grip on her cousin’s arm in case he decides to bolt, they run into Shianni and Nola, their neighbor and another bridesmaid. Shianni’s changed into her bridesmaid’s dress, and has been much worse at keeping her wedding finery clean than Cerynth has. Probably because she can’t walk straight and is managing to stomp through every dirty puddle in her path. She carries a half-empty bottle and takes a swig as she goes. Nola tries to hurry after her, but is slowed by trying to avoid the puddles. “Shianni! Slow down!” 

“There you are!” Shianni shouts, wrapping her arms around both her cousins, holding them tightly enough that they can’t escape the stench of her breath.

“You know you’re supposed to start drinking  _ after _ the party, right?” grumbles Soris.

Cerynth laughs, and suspects he’s more upset that he’s  _ not  _ drunk than that Shianni  _ is _ .

“I’ve tried to get her to give me the bottle, but she won’t listen,” frets Nola, finally catching up.

“I’m not  _ that _ drunk,” says Shianni, still hanging onto her cousins even as they try to push her off, practically putting Cerynth in a headlock as she tries to drink from her bottle at the same time. “Not yet anyway.”

Nola gasps and Soris’ laughter cuts off suddenly. Cerynth turns to follow his gaze to the west gate. 

Shems. Four of them, noble by the look of their clothes, and drunker than Shianni if they think coming into the Alienage unarmed is a good idea. Of course, starting something with them would be a worse idea. An elf harming a noble would mean a purge, surer than fleas on a rat.

The leader is a tosser if Cerynth’s ever seen one, with a stupid red and orange doublet and skin so pale it’s clear he’s never worked a day in his life. He approaches them with a predatory smile, calling “You there! Knife ears!”

Cerynth grips Shianni’s arm tightly, ready to restrain her if needed. She hears Soris back up slowly, ready to run for help. Nola, tiny Nola, stands frozen and trembling. Cerynth can’t reach her without letting go of Shianni.

Moving faster than Cerynth expected, the shem leader lunges and pulls Nolah to him, one huge hand around her arm and the other pushing aside her hair to better see her ears. “They really do twitch when they’re scared!” 

The other shems laugh like idiots while Nola whimpers. 

“Let her go! She’s only fourteen!” Shianni squirms against Cerynth, but she’s too drunk to put up much of a real fight. 

“You! Boy! Where do you think you’re going?” one of the lackeys calls. Cerynth hears Soris’ footsteps stop.

Her mind flickers to the knife in her boot.

“Let me go! Stop, please!” Nola wriggles free of the shem’s grip, more because he seems to have lost interest than anything else. 

The scared girl runs straight to Cerynth, and Cerynth lets go of Shianni to hug Nola to her, putting herself between the smaller girl and the shems. Nola is still whimpering and Cerynth smooths down her hair, shushing her.

“It’s a party isn’t it?” The lead shem turns those predator’s eyes toward Cerynth and she glares back. “Grab a whore and have a good time!”

The other morons laugh again. Cerynth dearly wishes she could cut out each of their tongues.

“Savor the hunt, boys. Take this knife-ear wench here, for example.” The shem’s eyes slide over to Shianni. Cerynth realizes she isn’t holding her cousin back anymore. “So vulnerable.”

“Touch me and I’ll gut you, pig!” Shianni shouts. 

Cerynth tries to catch Soris’ eye. Nola is still clinging to her, he needs to get to Shianni and make sure she doesn’t do something stupid. Soris makes eye contact with her, then immediately turns and blurts, “Please, my lords, we’re celebrating weddings today!”

The shem, again moving far more quickly than a shem has any right to, darts forward and backhands Soris across the face, nearly knocking him off his feet. 

Shianni gasps and Nola screams before Cerynth quickly cuts her off with a hand over her mouth. It’s too late though, the shem’s attention has swung back their way.

Cerynth’s every muscle tenses as he stalks towards her.  _ Grab his fingers and  _ bend. _ No hesitating. Pull back until there’s a  _ crack _. Just like Mother taught her. Heel to instep, knee to groin, elbow to the back of the neck when he bends over.  _ Cerynth breathes in slowly, she can’t do that, shouldn’t do that. She stays very, very still.

“What’s this?” He towers over her. Cerynth feels Nola’s scared tears running over her hand, still over the girl’s mouth to keep her quiet. “Another pretty one come to keep me company?” He runs a fingernail along Cerynth’s ear and she bites back a hiss. 

“We can talk this over, milord,” she says, voice smaller and higher than her own, begging. “If you come back after nightfall, there are elves who wait by the gates who I’m sure would be happy to--”

His fingers close over her ear, fingernails digging in as he yanks, and Cerynth can’t hold back a cry of pain this time. “You dare--do you have any idea who I am?” he roars.

Cerynth doesn’t get to find out because there’s a loud crack, then shattering glass and the stench of ale, and the shem is face down in a dirty puddle and Nola has torn Cerynth’s hand away and is screaming--

Shianni stands there, dazed, broken neck of the bottle clutched in her fist. 

Cerynth moves before she thinks, grabbing Shianni by the arm, her other hand still around Nola’s waist, and hauls them backwards as fast as she can, ignoring the dirty water ruining the hems of their dresses. Soris steps in front of them protectively, though Cerynth has no idea what he thinks he’s going to do.

The other shems are shouting, but largely ignore Cerynth and the others as they tend to their fallen rat of a leader. One of them turns, though, shouting, “Are you insane? That’s Vaughan Urien, the arl of Denerim’s son!”

Cerynth’s blood goes cold. She hears Shianni whisper, “Oh, Maker…”

“We won’t say anything if you don't,” Cerynth says. “No one has to know the arl’s son was bested by an elven woman.” It’s desperate and they all know it. When they tell this story, Shianni could have a knife, or poison, or they could all have ambushed them, anything they like. They’re noble, and Shianni’s a knife ear, and they can say anything they damn well please. But they look young and stupid, and maybe, just this once, Cerynth will be lucky.

The lackeys have picked their leader up and are carrying him back toward the gate. The shem who spoke to them spits but turns and follows after.

“I really messed up this time,” Shianni whispers shakily as Cerynth hears footsteps behind them. 

They all whirl around, but it’s only two elves, a man and a woman, making their way toward the group. Cerynth’s never seen them before, which is strange, she knows everyone in the Alienage. They must be new, but she hadn’t heard of any newcomers except for--oh.  _ Oh _ . 

“What was that?” the woman asks at the same time the man says, “Is everyone all right?”

“We’re fine. Just shaken up,” says Soris, whose ears have gone completely red.

“I’m just going to go get cleaned up,” mutters Shianni as she pushes past the newcomers, going back to the Vhenadahl, still holding the broken bottle neck. Nola lets go of Cerynth and runs after her.

Cerynth stares at the man, unable to speak. He is tall, for an elf, with golden hair and kind grey eyes. He looks sturdy, somehow, like she could lean her whole weight on him and not be afraid of him tipping over. She finds herself picturing him carrying her, wiry arms wrapped around her body…

Her mind wanders to the conversation she’d had with Auntie Dilwen a week ago, about what  _ exactly _ would happen the night of the wedding. Tonight. Her face goes warm and her ear throbs where the shem grabbed it.

“What was that all about?” the woman asks. Her hair’s a bit frizzy and she’s a bit wide shouldered for a woman, and there’s definitely an overbite, but overall Cerynth doesn’t think she looks at all like a dead mouse.

“The arl’s son just started drinking too early,” says Soris, but seeing the others’ alarmed faces, quickly adds, “Um, well, let’s not let this ruin the day.” 

Cerynth really hopes her ears haven’t gone as red as Soris’. 

Soris gestures to the woman. “Cerynth, this is Valora. My, um, betrothed.” 

“Oh, don’t tell me this other one’s mine?” Maker’s breath, why did she just say that? Why does she have to make stupid jokes when she’s nervous? Why can’t she just shut up?

“We should start heading back, I think!” say Soris loudly, marching back towards the Vhenadahl, Valora trailing behind him. He shoots Cerynth a look over his shoulder that says  _ I can’t believe you just said that _ . 

She can’t either. Maker’s ballsack, what is wrong with her?

She should not be thinking about ballsacks. Should not be thinking about any part of a man’s body.  _ Dammit _ .

Her betrothed ( _ Nelaros, Cerynth, he has a name for Andraste’s sake _ ) falls into step beside her as she follows Soris back towards the center of the Alienage. “Do I really make such a poor first impression?”

She chances a look at his face and quickly looks away when she sees his mouth pulling up in a half-smile.  _ Do not look at his mouth _ . “No, of course not, I’m just an idiot. I say stupid things when I’m nervous.” She also sometimes babbles, apparently. She shouldn’t have braided her hair back, if it was loose she could swing it in front of her face and not look at him.

“Don’t worry,” he says, smiling again, leaning in as though telling a secret. “You make me nervous too.”

She laughs in spite of herself, and, yes, his ears are definitely pink. And he has a sense of humor. And a nice smile. A really nice smile.

Maybe it’s a good thing it’s her and not Shianni getting married today.

Too soon they catch up with Soris and Valora, who stand at the edges of the crowd surrounding the Vhenadahl. Valora looks more composed than anyone getting married in a few hours (or less than that? The sun is higher than Cerynth thinks it should be) has any right to be, waving to Cerynth and Nelaros with a smile.

Soris (who seems to be trying very hard to not look at Valora) grabs Cerynth’s wrist. “We should go find Valendrian and tell him about what happened with the arl’s son.” He’s started to haul her off before he finishes talking. 

She barely has time to glance back and see Nelaros smiling, Valora cheerfully calling “See you two soon!” 

“They don’t seem so bad,” she says as Soris continues to drag her through the crowd towards Valendrian’s house.

Soris snorts. “I told you yours was handsome.”

He is handsome, isn’t he? “Valora seems nice, too.”

“Don’t start, Cer. I--” He stops suddenly, and Cerynth almost runs into him.

“Soris, what are you--”

“Look.”

In front of the door to Valendrian’s house is a human man. A very large human man. A very large, armored human man. With weapons.

Cerynth tenses, pulling Soris into the shadows of an alley. Vaughan couldn’t have sent someone that quickly, could he? “Who is he? What is he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” says Soris, “but he’s only a few turns away from a crowd of elves who are very drunk. And with the way our luck is going today, he could be the Emperor of Orlais.”

Cerynth shakes her head, peering at the human from the shadows. “None of his armor matches and it’s not polished. There’re scratches and dirt. And his beard isn’t trimmed.”

“So what? He’s still got two swords and at least one dagger.”

“I’ll bet he’s a broke mercenary looking to start trouble.” Cerynth starts to exit the alley but Soris grabs her arm and yanks her back. 

“Are you insane? You just said he’s looking for trouble!” Soris hisses, trying retreat further into the alley.

Cerynth shakes her cousin off her arm. “And he’s going to find it one way or another, so it might as well be from someone who’s sober and knows how to fight. From the looks of him, no one’s going to make a fuss if something happens to him.” She leaves the safety of the alley before Soris can stop her, marching toward the man.

After a moment, Soris runs to catch up with her. “Maybe if we talk to him we can convince him to leave?”

“Maybe,” says Cerynth, but neither of them believe her.

“Good day.” The human’s voice is mild and his stance is relaxed, hands folded behind his back. “I understand congratulations are in order for your impending wedding.”

Cerynth is surprised for a moment by his politeness, but quickly gathers herself. “We thank you milord, but this isn’t really a good place for you to be. You should leave, and avoid any--” What was that word Shianni’d used the other day? “Unpleasantness.”

The man chuckles, looking down at her as though he found her entertaining. “And what manner of ‘unpleasantness’ would you be referring to?”

Cerynth’s ears twitch downward and she grits her teeth, fighting to keep her expression polite. “It’s just not a good idea for a sh--human to be this far into the Alienage.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no intention of leaving.” His smile is still polite. Cerynth grits her teeth.

“Ser, I’m really not kidding, it isn’t good for any of us if you stay here.” What was that thing Mother taught her, about seeming taller without actually being taller? She plants her feet shoulder-width apart, lowers her shoulders, and raises her chin. All this does is make her feel silly. He still towers over her by at least a foot.

The shem tilts his head, looking at her like he’s--curious? Like she’s a surprisingly clever cat. Or a surprisingly stupid child.  “And I refuse yet again. Now what?”

Cerynth doesn’t bother to hide any anger in her voice this time. Please let him not think her worth the trouble. “I’m not backing down. This is no place for you.”

“Surely it has not escaped your notice that I am both armed and armored. Any fight between us would be…” There’s that shit-eating grin again. “Rather one-sided.”

“And you plan on using that weapon?” Her ear throbs with the memory of nail-marks, and a small part of her, the part of her that always feels so,  _ so _ angry, hopes he’ll fight her. Hopes that he’ll swing first and she’ll be able to show this shem exactly how _ helpless _ she is.

“Not unless I’m left without a choice.” He has a choice, he can leave whenever he fucking wants to. This is her home.

 

_ Cerynth was nine years old and scrawny, with feet and ears that were growing faster than the rest of her. Mother had replaced the sack of cornmeal with a straw filled dummy, human shaped. She handed Cerynth her wooden daggers (She had started practicing with two when she was seven, and on her ninth birthday Papa had carved them into knives), said: “That dummy is your enemy. Show me where you would strike.” _

_ Cerynth ran forward, striking one dull edge into the dummy’s head, then the other into its heart. She looked back to Mother, smiling, proud.  _

_ “Good form, Cery. But if that was a real shem, you’d be dead.” _

_ Frowning, Cerynth watched as mother took a stick of charcoal and started drawing on the dummy. Little circles. “What are those?” _

_ Mother took Cerynth’s hand, removing the wooden dagger, and held it to her chest. “Do you feel that?” _

_ “Your heartbeat?” _

_ Mother smiled. “What’s protecting my heart. You feel the bone there? Go on, press.” _

_ Cerynth pressed her thumb where her mother pointed. The skin was soft, but the bone underneath left no give.  _

_ Still smiling, Mother moved Cerynth’s hand up, to her neck. “Now what do you feel?” _

_ “Your pulse.” _

_ “Now press. Gently.” _

_ The beating pulse grew stronger as she pressed, no bone to protect it. _

_ Mother removed Cerynth’s hand and returned the wooden dagger to it. “Now where do you suppose would be a better place to stick a dagger?”  _

_ Cerynth didn’t answer, but Mother must have known she understood. She gestured to the marked dummy. “Humans wear armor, but even armor has weak points. Most shems train for enemies with huge swords that can’t slip into those spaces.” She held Cerynth’s face in her hands, forcing their eyes to meet. “But a dagger can.” _

 

“Weapon or no, you need to leave.”

The shem raises an eyebrow, then slowly, almost casually, reaches up, hand angling for the hilt of one of the swords strapped to his back.

She drops down, hand going to the dagger concealed in her boot, barely registering Soris yelling (“Try not to die! I’ll get help!”), when the shem’s hand stops and falls loosely back to his side. He chuckles. He’s fucking  _ laughing _ .

“Relax, I’m not here to fight you.”

Clenching her jaw, she stands up slowly, ears flat against her skull. She’s about to tell him once more that he needs to fucking  _ leave _ when the door to Valendrian’s house opens.

The Hahren, much thinner and more hunched than she remembers him being when she was younger, stops in his doorway, surprised but not frightened. “Duncan?”

“It’s good to see you again, Valendrian.” Duncan nods to her, eyes flicking for a moment to the boot where her knife is concealed. “The bravery of this young woman is most impressive, don’t you agree?”

Valendrian catches Duncan’s glance, and glares at Cerynth disapprovingly. “I’d say the world has far more use for those who know how to stay their blades.” His words drip with implied meaning, and Cerynth has the good sense to bow her head and look ashamed.

“You know this human, Hahren?” says Soris, who must not have run very far before hearing Valendrian. 

Valendrian nods stiffly. “May I present Duncan, Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden.” Cerynth notices that he looks at the human with respect, but also something bordering on dislike. “It has been too long, old friend.”

“What’s a Grey Warden?” It sounds familiar, maybe like something Mother mentioned in one of her stories.

“They’re an order of warriors who protect the land from the darkspawn,” says Valendrian. “I suspect you have questions, just as I suspect Duncan is here with very important business.” He says it as though he dearly wishes Duncan would take that important business somewhere else. Turning the human, he continues, “But that will have to wait, I’m afraid. We are celebrating weddings here today. Two, in fact.”

“By all means, attend to your ceremonies. My concerns can wait for now.” Duncan nods respectfully to the Hahren, but this only seems to sour him further.

“Hahren, we actually have something we came here to tell you--” Soris starts, but Valendrian cuts him off.

“And I’m sure it can wait until after the ceremony.”

“But--”

Valendrian starts shuffling forward, waving his hand impatiently. “Are you going to keep stalling or are you going to help an old man before he slips in the mud and breaks something?”

With a helpless look towards Cerynth, Soris lets the Hahren lean on him as the pair make their way slowly back to the Vhenadahl. Cerynth starts to follow, but stops at the sound of Duncan’s voice.

“You look very much like your mother.”

Cerynth turns so quickly she almost slips. He dares-- “How do you know my mother?”

The shem smiles sadly. “She was a talented fighter. I was sorry to hear of her passing. I wanted to recruit her for the Wardens, about twelve years ago now, but Valendrian urged me to let her stay with her family. Since there was no Blight then, I respected his wishes.”

The sound of blood rushing roars in her ears. The sheath of Mother's dagger seems to burn where it presses against her ankle. If Mother hadn’t stayed--would she…?

Duncan levels his eyes at her. “Times are more dire now, I’m afraid.”

Cerynth turns and all but runs back to the Vhenadahl, to Soris and Shianni and Papa and Valendrian and Nelaros, and tries not to wonder if Duncan meant those words to sound like a threat.


	3. Cerynth's Wedding, Part 3

Cerynth barely registers the words of Revered Mother Boann. Something about eternal devotion and the eyes of the Maker or something of the sort. She can’t stop thinking about what Duncan said about Mother. Part of her wants it to not be true, but she can’t begin to guess the Warden’s reason for lying. But even if her mother were still alive as a Warden, she would still be gone, wouldn’t she? Just fighting against storybook monsters instead of at the Maker’s side. Maybe it would be worse, in a way. If Duncan had recruited Mother she would have left the Alienage when Cerynth was five. She would barely have known her. Being a Warden sounds dangerous, maybe Mother would have died much sooner.

But what if? What if she could have been here today, seen her daughter married?

She doesn’t realize her hands are shaking until fingers lace through hers, stilling them.

Neither of them turn from the Revered Mother, but she catches him looking out of the corner of his eye. “You look radiant,” whispers Nelaros, squeezing her hand and smiling.

She bites back a laugh. The hem of her wedding dress is muddy and she’s sure she’s been frowning for most of the ceremony.

She squeezes his hand back. Thoughts of Duncan and Wardens and whatever else can wait.

That lasts a moment before the shouting starts.

She can’t tell what it is at first, just noise and movement in the crowd opposite the makeshift platform on which the ceremony is taking place. Mother Boann tries to ignore it but it just grows louder and elves are rushing out of the way of _something_ \--

Soris sees first. “No…”

Vaughan’s returned. He’s changed into a new, but still stupid, doublet and now has a sword buckled around his waist. His idiot followers are back, too, shoving elves out of the way. They all have swords now, too. Cerynth would bet half of them don’t know the hilt from the pointy end, but that doesn’t matter. Trailing behind them are four guardsmen, in full plate armor.

“My lord,” says Mother Boann. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

“Sorry to interrupt, Mother,” says Vaughan as he climbs onto the platform with the Mother and the wedding party. “But I’m having a party, and we’re dreadfully short of female guests.” His laugh sounds like the barking of a feral dog. Vaughan circles Valora, eyes running over her body, as though sizing up a cut of meat. Valora, bless her, keeps her chin up and doesn’t flinch.

“Milord, this is a wedding!” Mother Boann snaps, maybe thinking she can cow the lordling with fear of the Maker.

She’s a fool, Cerynth thinks.

Vaughan shoves Valora aside roughly, advancing on the Mother, forcing her to back up to the edge of the platform. “If you want to dress up your pets and have tea parties, that’s your business.”

Nelaros’ grip shackles her hand, and he tries to move himself between her and Vaughan. She wants to tell him to stop, he’ll just get himself hurt, but she’s afraid speaking will draw attention.

Vaughan’s voice has gone cold as he towers over the priestess. “But don’t pretend this is a real wedding.” He smiles like a dog baring its teeth, and with a lazy gesture summons his lackeys up onto the platform. “We’re here for a good time, aren’t we boys?”

The lordlings haul themselves up easily, moving among the bridesmaids, Cerynth and Soris’ neighbors and cousins and childhood friends, like they’re at a marketplace. They tug on their clothes and ears and hair, commenting on this one’s breasts and that one’s tight dress. Mother Boann continues to bluster, but the elves stay still as cornered mice, eyes following the shem’len, especially the guardsmen with gauntleted hands resting on pommels. Cerynth spots Papa in the crowd, praying with shut eyes and shaking hands.

The shems’ chatter cuts off when Vaughan, as though commenting on the weather, asks “Where’s the bitch that bottled me?”

One of the lackeys grabs Shianni by the back of the neck, huge fingers wrapping almost all the way around. “Over here, Lord Vaughan!”

Shianni wriggles and flails, but it’s useless. “Let me go, you stuffed shirt son of a--”

Vaughan grabs her chin, and Shianni cuts off with a whimper. “Oh, I’ll enjoy taming this one.” He lets her go, then turns around slowly, looking at each elf until his eyes land on Cerynth. “And how could I forget the pretty bride?” He walks across the platform to her slowly, as though he has all the time in the bloody world.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let them take you!” Nelaros says under his breath.

Cerynth pulls her hand out of his. “He’ll kill both of us if you fight. I’ll go with him. I’ll be fine.”

“Such a well-formed little thing.”

Cerynth flinches despite herself as Vaughan’s hand reaches for her face. Nelaros starts to shout something, but Vaughan shoves him aside quick as a whip.

“Please,” Cerynth murmurs, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I’ll go quietly, I’ll do whatever you want, just please don’t hurt anyone, please--”

The last thing she sees is Vaughan’s fist coming at her and the last thing she hears is a bark of laughter.

* * *

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us. Maker keep us, Maker protect us…”

Cerynth wakes to her head throbbing, and allows herself a moment to wish that everything she remembers was just a bad dream. Just a moment before the panic sets in.

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us…”

She sits up slowly, groaning from a bruise on her side that she’s not sure how she got.

“Thank the Maker you’re alright.” It’s Shianni leaning over her, looking shaken but no worse for wear.

They’re in a small room with two doors and no windows, stone floors and wood paneled walls. In the arl’s palace.

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us…”

Cerynth starts running her hands over her clothes, searching for tears or loose ties. Her small clothes are still in place. She starts to lift her skirt to check for blood, but Shianni stops her, holding her wrists and making soft shushing sounds.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, Cery. The rest of us were conscious when they brought us in, they haven’t done anything to you.”

“Yet.” Cerynth’s hand goes to her boot. The dagger’s still there. Not that she can use it. Maybe it would have been better to leave it under the floorboards. Then there would be no chance of her believing for even a second that she has a choice.

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us…”

“Would you _please_ stop that? You’re driving me insane,” Shianni snaps.

Across the room, Nola is kneeling, hands clasped, chanting the same verse, maybe the only verse she knows, over and over. Valora crouches next to her, trying to coax the girl out of her trance, but there’s no use.

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us…”

Cerynth stands and inspects the locks on each of the doors.

“Can you pick them?” Shianni asks.

“No, they’re barred from the outside.” Cerynth straightens and backs away from the doors. “We’re trapped until someone comes for us.”

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us…”

“We’ll just give them what they want,” says Valora calmly, rubbing small circles into Nola’s back. “They’ll let us go when they’re done and we can forget any of this ever happened.”

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us…”

Cerynth nods, feeling a chill run down her spine despite the air in the room being completely still. “It will be worse if we resist.” Her voice doesn’t sound like hers. Smaller.

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us…”

“It will be worse if we don’t!” cries Shianni.

One of the doors swings open.

“Maker keep us…”

Cerynth recognizes the guards. They’re the ones who followed Vaughan into the Alienage, protected by heavy plate armor, wielding swords, and with shields strapped to their backs.

“Maker protect us…”

Shianni, Cerynth, and Valora all instinctively back away, huddling together. Nola is still kneeling, praying.

“Maker keep us…”

“Hello wenches,” one of them sneers. “We’ll be your escorts to Lord Vaughan’s little party.”

“Maker protect us…”

They fan out, each guard going for an elf.

When one grabs Nola’s arm and tries to pull her up, she shrieks “Stay away from me!” and lashes out at the guard’s face with her nails. There’s a sickeningly wet _crunch_ as the guard’s sword stabs through Nola’s chest.

_You feel the bone there? Go on, press._

“No! She’s just a child!” screams Shianni, but she stills when her guard presses his blade against her back.

“Struggle, and you end up like her,” he snarls, pushing Shianni by sword point out of the room.

Valora goes quietly, chin up, hands shaking.

Cerynth can’t move. Her mother’s boots feel like lead weights. Her heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of her chest, held back only by the bone protecting it.

_Maker keep us, Maker protect us_.

Nola’s chest is wide open, bloody and gory and she was _fourteen_ …

The guard is pulling on her, trying to make her move, but she can’t, she can’t remember how, all she can hear is,

 

_“Never do that again, Cerynth, do you hear me? Never again!”_

_Cerynth was a scrawny twelve, being dragged home by her mother. “He was threatening me!”_

_“He was an idiot having a laugh Cerynth, we can’t attack everyone who calls us knife ear!”_

_They both shut up as they passed the guards by the Alienage gate. One of them whistled and Mother’s hand tightened around Cerynth’s arm._

_Once they were safely in the Alienage, Cerynth planted her feet and ripped her arm from Mother’s hold. “He had no right! I’m not helpless, why shouldn’t I fight back?”_

_Mother spun around, nearly knocking Cerynth over, hands grabbing her shoulders hard enough to bruise. “Because you’ll get yourself killed!”_

_“Why teach me the things you do if you expect me to never use them?” Cerynth shouted._

_“They outnumber us ten to one! They have weapons and armor and coin, and they will take any reason to purge us!”_

_“There hasn’t been a purge in--”_

_“Where do you think Valendrian got that limp? Where do you think Papa got those scars on his back?” Mother shook her, hands squeezing, tears streaming down her face. “Cerynth, where do you think Shianni’s parents are?”_

_“You’re hurting me,” Cerynth whispered. She’d never seen Mother like this before._

_Letting go of her with a choked sob, Mother hugged her close instead, stroking her hair. “There are more elves in this city than just us, Cery. Shems are not above punishing all of us for the actions of a few.” Taking a big, shuddering breath, Mother pulled back, wiping away her tears. “We fight when we have no other choice. We fight when no one can see us. We fight when--” she lowered her voice, “when we know it ends with us.”_

_Cerynth nodded, shame twisting in her gut._

_“When you are older, you can choose for yourself what you fight for.” Mother cupped Cerynth’s face in her hands, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I fight to protect what’s mine.”_

 

There’s a dead child on the arl’s floor, and if she makes the scum who did it pay, the Alienage will pay a higher price.

But they killed Nola. An elven child was murdered, and what kind of world does she live in if someone doesn’t pay for that?

“You think this one’s touched in the head?”

“Who knows, but Lord Vaughan picked this one himself. He’ll be mad if we break his toy.”

“Just carry her then.”

Is she willing to give her life for this? To give up everything for a hollow justice? And what gives her the right to make that decision for every elf in Denerim?

But they killed Nola. Like it was _nothing_.

“Uh...hello?”

Cerynth’s eyes snap up. Soris in the doorway, still in is wedding clothes, a sword in his hand, a _real_ sword, not wood--

The guards turn from her, laugh. “What’s this? A little knife ear with a stolen sword? Come to play hero, have you?”

What is he thinking?

The guards, both of them, advance on Soris, swords drawn. He’s going to die. They’re going to kill him too.

Soris doesn’t raise the sword, but crouches, sliding it between the guards’ legs, across blood-slicked stone, to Cerynth. The guards turn back to her, swords still drawn. One of them still has Nola’s blood all over his armor.

_We fight when we have no other choice_.

They expect her to dive for the sword, so they go low, ready to slice her the moment she does. Instead, she dodges to the side, Mother’s dagger out of its sheath in a flash of silver.

“Oh, sod,” one of them curses.

At this angle, they’re lined up nicely for her. The one nearest her charges, while the other tries to get out from around his fellow to flank her.

She ducks under the sword swing of the charging one, driving her dagger into his armpit, then hooks a leg around his and uses the leverage of both that and the dagger to swing him towards the other guard. She keeps hold of the dagger and it slides out of his body with a squelch. They crash with a scream of metal, the wounded one falling to the floor and the other staggering backward.

Cerynth charges the one that’s still upright. He raises his sword to block her, but she spins at the last second, ending up behind him. Panicking now, he swings his sword wildly, trying to get at her, but she can move much faster than he can turn in that armor and she stays behind him. When he shifts his weight to one foot for a big swing, she kicks hard at the back of his knee, at the same time using the shield still strapped to his back (idiot) to pull him towards her. He bends back at the waist far enough for her to reach up and grab his head with one hand, driving her dagger into his eye with the other. Blood slicks her hands as she shifts his weight enough for him to fall to the side and not on top of her. Before his body hits the floor, she’s spun to the other guard.

Soris stands over him, the sword he’d given Cerynth in his hands and dripping blood, the other guard dead at his feet. He looks as though he’s about to be sick.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

He swallows loudly and nods. “You?”

She nods as well. She wipes her bloody hands on her ruined wedding dress.

“They killed Nola,” says Soris, glancing at the body but looking away quickly, face green and ears quivering.

“How are you here? Where did you get that sword?” As she speaks, Cerynth busies herself removing one of the dead guard’s belts. She removes everything from it but the coin pouch and knife. She wipes the blade of her mother’s dagger on her dress before returning it to its sheath and attaching it to the belt.

“After they took you and the others, Nelaros was furious. He lost it on those who said we should hope for the best. He was ready to storm the place to save you.” Soris won’t meet her eyes. He had wanted to hope for the best. “Valendrian tried to talk him down, but Duncan gave us each one of his swords.”

“Wait, where is Nelaros then? And why in the Maker’s name didn’t Duncan come himself if he was so keen on rescuing us? Or just stop Vaughan before he took us for that matter?” Panic and rage war in Cerynth, making her insides twist and her hands shake. She buckles the former guard’s belt around her waist, having to wrap it twice to keep it from sliding down her hips. The grip of the guard’s knife is a bit too big to be comfortable in her hand, but it will do the job.

Soris glances at the guard he killed, as if considering looting the body as Cerynth has, but looks away quickly, swallowing again. “We didn’t know where you were, so we split up. We have a meeting point.”

Cerynth pulls the shield from one of the guards, giving it to Soris. “And what of Duncan?”

“He said Wardens couldn’t involve themselves,” says Soris, positioning the shield on his arm. “This thing is really heavy.”

“It’s strong enough to stop a sword blow, of course it’s heavy.” If Duncan truly means not to get involved, he wouldn’t have given Soris and Nelaros his swords. Either he’s an idiot, or he has some other reason, he wants something--

She can’t think about this right now. “Take me to the meeting place.”

Soris nods, adjusting the weight of the shield. “Should we--should we take their armor?”

Cerynth barks a laugh. “If you think it’ll fit, be my guest.”

* * *

 They hurry through deserted hallways, narrow and dusty, meant to be used by servants. Soris leads the way, and Cerynth does her best to keep the turns straight. “Where is everyone?”

“It’s been hours since you were taken from the Alienage. Night’s fallen by now, I bet most of the staff’s gone home for the day.” Soris stops at a door, tries to open it. Tries again. Starts jiggling the handle. “This was open when I came through here.” He continues shaking the handle, and Cerynth hears the panic in his voice. “I’m sure this is the right door, it was open before, I swear--”

Cerynth puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pushes him aside, examining the lock. “It’s bolted from the other side. We’ll have to find another way.”

“What if we run into more guards?” Soris’ breathing is loud, fast.

She doesn’t have time for this.

“What do you think that shield is for?” She doubles back, not waiting to see if Soris is following her.

After a few dead ends, they end up in the kitchens, empty except for a shem cook. The shem comes at them, yelling, threatening to call the guards, but as Cerynth draws her daggers there’s a loud _clang_ and he crumples to the ground. Behind him stands an elven kitchen hand, wielding a frying pan, eyes wide with his own daring. “You have no idea how long that shem’s had it coming.”

“Do you know where they took the other elven women?”

The kitchen hand nods, and gives them directions to Vaughan’s quarters as well as a warning about the off duty guards in the mess hall they would need to cross to get there. After they thank him, he disappears out of the servants’ exit, likely trying to get as far away from this mess as possible.

“Should we fight our way through?” asks Soris, staring at the door to the mess hall.

Cerynth’s eyes search the kitchen. “I've got a better idea.”

A few minutes’ searching yields a bottle of Ferelden whiskey, rat poison, and a long apron. Soris busies himself finding a tray and cups while Cerynth mixes in the poison and ties the apron over her blood-stained dress, taking care that the stolen guard’s belt is hidden.

She arranges the bottle and the cups Soris brings her on a tray. “Stay here,” she tells him, pushing open the door to the mess hall before he can say anything.

There are three human men seated at the end of one of the many long tables. They’re huge, hairy, and red-faced, already halfway drunk. That’ll make this easier.

“More drink for you, sers?” Cerynth asks, using that small voice that isn’t hers. If she wants it to be, it can be just as much a weapon as her dagger.

They roar in joy, like so many beasts. “I like this knife ear!” one announces, slapping Cerynth’s arse.

Keep smiling, Cery. Pour the drink.

They slam it back and she keeps pouring and they keep drinking until one of them starts to gasp. She calmly sets down the bottle and makes sure to step out of reach.

It takes longer than she expects. There’s a lot of gasping and cursing, one tries to draw his sword, but he doesn’t even have the strength by then to grip it properly. There’s some froth at their mouths, too, spilling over their lips into their disgusting beards. They glare at her as they die, and she stares back, wondering if it’s a bad sign that she can’t summon even a scrap of sympathy.

When they’ve all stopped twitching, she calls, “You can come out now, Soris,” as she unties the apron, dropping it to the floor.

They follow the kitchen hand’s directions through the palace, encountering only a handful of guards, but nothing Cerynth can’t handle. Soris gets off a few swings of his borrowed sword, but he mostly serves as a distraction. The shems charge the one with the shield and never see her dagger, only feel it as it slides through the gaps of their armor and into their flesh.

Soris and Nelaros’ meeting point is on the way to Vaughan’s quarters. Cerynth knows it would be good to find him there, that three of them should stand a better chance than two, but looking down at her wedding dress, torn and bloodied, she knows she’s not the same girl from this morning, the girl who held her fiance’s hand and pictured her wedding night as something very different from what’s happening now.

Soris spies the door, announces “This is it!”, and charges through. Cerynth follows.

Nelaros’ body lies sprawled on the ground, throat slashed, a sword that’s too big for him, made for a human, lying just beyond his grasp. Three guards stand over him, one wearing plate nicer than the others, as well as a white cape trimmed in silver. He must be the captain.

The shem turns to them with a sneer. “Told you there’d be more. Elves run in packs. Like rodents.”

Soris gasps, shouts, swears revenge, raises his sword.

Cerynth goes to work.

Killing the captain is child’s play. All she has to do to knock him over is catch hold of his fancy cape and yank, then it’s a simple matter of slitting his throat. The other two come close to flanking her, but they’re trained to keep their stances wide to keep from getting knocked over by a charging opponent. It’s all too easy for Cerynth to slide between one’s legs and come out the other side.

Soris does a fine job of bashing them with his shield, but it’s her who deals the finishing blows. She doesn’t bother to clean the blood from her face or hands when it’s over. It would be pointless while there’s still Vaughan left to kill.

“Nelaros...I’m so sorry,” mutters Soris as he kneels next to the body, blood soaking his knees.

Cerynth kneels too, because she knows she should. She looks at Nelaros’ face and thinks of the crooked smile that just this morning she thought she could very easily grow to love. He risked everything to try to save her, to defend her, his wife-to-be, a stranger.

He was an idiot.

His heroics got him killed, and could very well get the rest of them killed by the time this is over. He should have stayed put and hoped for the best. Shouldn’t have tried to be a bloody hero, should have done what they said, should have known his place, should have--

A sob chokes its way out of her. Tears mix with the blood on her face.

Soris hands her something. “It was in his hand. The one that wasn’t holding the sword.”

A wedding ring. Made from wood of a Vhenadahl. She slips it onto her finger as she rises. “Let’s go. We’re not done yet.”


	4. Cerynth's Wedding, Part 4

Cerynth has never been as good a carver as Papa. He taught her the techniques, and she has clever enough hands, but the little figurines and toys she tries to carve for market always come out a bit off. Something about the proportions. 

Papa says it’s because she thinks too much. She thinks too much of what the end result should be instead of focusing on each scrape of the blade. He says when he works the carving knife, whether to make a tiny toy mabari or a new latch for the door, that time seems to slip away and all that exists is his hands, the piece of wood, and the knife. Cerynth had never understood him.

Perhaps wood is just the wrong medium.

As she carves her way to Vaughan’s quarters, the guards growing thicker the closer she gets, something inside her goes cold. Nothing exists but the daggers in her hands, the gaps in the guards’ armor she can slip them through, and the blood that washes over her. It almost doesn’t matter why anymore. She doesn’t know if she can make herself stop if she tries.

But she needs to get to Shianni. She needs to save her to make all of this even a little bit worth it.

She unsheathes a dagger from between the ribs of some faceless shem, moves on before he hits the ground. Stalks down one hallway, then another, until she reaches a dead end. Doors on either side of her, both of them locked. After pulling at each of the handles in turn again, her thoughts a bit cloudy, she starts to feel her body again. The guards have barely been able to touch her, but still, everything aches. She gasps in air and every muscle screams for her to sit down, lie down, perhaps just not get up--

“Cerynth. This is it. This is the door.”

Soris' voice pulls her mind back into focus. She turns to the door Soris points to, looks at the lock. She’s good with locks. Always has been. She just needs to get it open. 

Her hands won’t let go of her daggers. She takes a long, shaking breath. She needs to open the door.

“Cerynth?” Soris asks, very quietly. “Are you okay?”

She should be asking him that. He has no real training or experience fighting. She hasn’t even been stopping to make sure he’s not wounded before moving onto the next target. He must be more exhausted than her, carrying that heavy shield. None of that had crossed her mind before now.

Cerynth doesn’t quite feel like a person. 

She slips the blade that belonged to the first man she killed between the door and the jamb, jimmying the lock open with a lot of effort and clanking. Not how she would normally do it, but it’s not as though they’re trying to keep their presence hidden. This way there’s no need for her to let go of her weapons. No need for her to admit she's not able to.

With a final shove, the door swings open just as the blade of the looted dagger separates from the hilt, falling away.

Vaughan and the other shems from the Alienage wait at the other side of the door, swords drawn. They probably heard her working the lock. Some of their shirts aren’t tucked in, as though they’ve just finished dressing. Huddled against a wall, dress torn, blood dripping from between her legs, is Shianni.

The empty hilt falls from Cerynth's hand, clattering to the floor. Blood roars in her ears. Her mother’s dagger is more real than anything else in the room. In the world.

“We’ll make quick work of them, Vaughan!” says one of the lackeys. His sword has jewels on the hilt and his grip says he hasn’t wielded it once in his life.

“Quiet, you idiot!” snaps Vaughan. His sword is jeweled also, but there are nicks on the blade. It’s seen battle. “They’re covered in enough blood to fill a tub. What do you think that means?”

“You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.” Her voice isn’t hers, low and hoarse. Or maybe it _is_ hers, maybe every part of this is hers.

Vaughan’s eyes flick over her, his hand tightens on the hilt of his blade. He’s scared. Of her. “Let’s not be hasty, now. Surely we can talk this over--”

“You think you can talk your way out of this? After what you’ve done?” Nola, fourteen, cut down while praying--

“I can see you have some skill. We fight here, you might even manage to kill me. But my father won’t let that go. When he returns from Ostagar, your alienage will be burned to the ground.” He sneers. “The streets will run red with elven blood. Unless we make a deal.”

Nelaros, dead so far from his home, his ring burning her finger-- “You dare--” 

“Cerynth,” Soris says. “Maybe he’s right? If they purge the Alienage again--”

“It’s too late.” She smiles at Vaughan. “You think I really believe your father will leave the Alienage alone after what I’ve done? All of your guards are dead. Between the room you left me in and here, every single one.” 

Vaughan’s eyes widen. However many he thought she killed, it wasn’t nearly as many as she had.

Tightening her grip on her mother’s blade, she says, “But at least I can enjoy this.” 

She lunges at Vaughan, but his sword flashes and he blocks her. She screams and falls on him again and again, and he beats back her dagger each time. He’s fast. Too fast, she thinks, as she feels the weight in her limbs. She’s been fighting for too long, and she hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since that morning. 

The other shems try to flank her, but they’re clumsy and lumbering, and only one of them makes it past Soris, only to earn a slash to his stomach as a reward. Vaughan uses the distraction to bring down his sword on her. She dodges, but only just barely, stumbling on the blood-slicked floor. A heavy boot connects with her ribs and she goes flying, slamming into a wooden post of Vaughan’s bed. All the air is knocked out of her.

Gasping, Cerynth tries to push herself upright, but her arms are shaking under her weight and the room is spinning--

Everything goes dark before her vision explodes back, spinning and star-bursting. Her head is about to split open.

Vaughan looms over her. Further away, she sees Soris has lost his shield and only has Duncan’s borrowed sword to defend against the last living lordling. 

She breathes in one last shaky breath, closes her eyes. 

 

_ “Don’t go, Mother, you don’t have to go.” Tears streamed down Cerynth’s face. She was fourteen and scared. “It’s my fault, you don’t have to go. It’s my fault, Mama, please don’t go.” _

_ “Shh, Cery.” She hugged Cerynth close. “You take care of your Papa and cousins, okay? You protect them.” Mother’s voice was thick but there were no tears on her face. “And don’t you forget what I taught you, okay?” _

 

Cerynth braces herself for the sword, for the blade breaking through the bone protecting her heart, but it doesn’t come. 

She hears a choking sound and clattering metal.

Opening her eyes takes much more effort than it took to close them, darkness pulling her, taste of blood in her mouth. When her vision clears, she sees Vaughan’s sword on the ground next to her, and Vaughan himself is clawing at something at his neck, eyes bulging. 

Shianni has taken the sash from her dress and wrapped it around Vaughan’s throat. He thrashes, trying to throw her off, but she locks her legs around his waist and pulls the sash tighter with a scream. He falls to his knees, still clawing. 

Time slows. Using every bit of strength she has left, Cerynth lifts her mother’s dagger as Vaughan falls toward her. His own weight drives the blade through skin and bone and heart, and his blood bathes Cerynth’s hands, face, everything. She is covered in him.

It takes a minute for Shianni to pull Vaughan off Cerynth, shoving and pulling the body that’s twice her size. Eventually she shifts the shem enough that Cerynth can push from under him, and he rolls aside with a dull thump. Shianni crouches beside Cerynth and starts to reach out, but stops suddenly, like she can’t bear to touch her.

“All you all right?” asks Cerynth, struggling to sit up.

“There’s so much blood...it’s--it’s everywhere.”

“We can wash it off when we get home.” Cerynth leans over and uses both hands to pull the dagger from Vaughan’s body.

Shianni nods, hands shaking violently. “Did you really kill them all? Like you said?”

She wipes the blade on Vaughan’s stupid doublet and sheathes it. “Every one.” 

Shianni looks at her, and her hands stop shaking as she clenches them into fists. “Good.”

Soris reappears from a door that must lead to a side room or closet or something, Valora in tow. Cerynth looks back towards the door they came in through, at the three shem bodies that must have been his doing. Shianni’s scream must have been enough of a distraction that he finished the one who was giving him trouble. Cerynth wonders if she should feel proud, but all she can manage is tired.

Soris looks like he’s about to help Cerynth up, but, just like Shianni, hesitates when he sees how much blood she’s covered in. Valora, surprising all of them, steps over Vaughan’s body as though it’s nothing more than a dirty puddle and stoops to pull Cerynth’s arm over her shoulder. They both stand, Valora bearing most of Cerynth’s weight, and not seeming to care one bit for how much blood she’s now covered in.

“Is she all right?” whispers Valora as Soris helps Shianni up.

“Are you?”

She nods. “Just shaken. He locked me in the closet. Said they were saving me for later.” She shifts Cerynth’s arm slightly, getting a better grip, then says, in a smaller voice, “Thank you.”

Cerynth shakes her head. “They’ll come back and make us pay. They always do.”

“Then thank you for today.”

Soris adjusts his grip on his borrowed sword. “Let’s get out of here.”


	5. Erida's Proving, Part 1

Erida Brosca is royally screwed. 

Of  _ course  _ Beraht would put all his coin on a useless drunk. That’s just like him, isn’t it? Come up with nug-brained schemes and blame everyone else when they go ass-end up.

Not that she’s been making the best decisions lately.

She’s reminded of this by a big-ass warhammer swinging by her head and missing it by centimeters. The heavy, ornamental, designed-by-some-idiot-who-cares-more-about-honor-than-keeping-his-head-on armor she’s wearing sends her stumbling, unable to control her momentum. Mainar clanks after her. He’s used to his stupid-ass armor, he can move in it fine, of course.

She dodges again, this time managing to keep herself upright enough to get a swing of her sword in. It just clangs off the fucking armor.

“Don’t bother with the drug,” she’d said to Leske, like a tit. “I can beat some pansy casted fair and square!”

It doesn’t help that she’s wielding Everd’s fancy sword instead of her own trusty axes. She might have a fighting chance then, but no, they’re not  _ shiny _ enough for her to use on the Proving grounds, everyone would know she’s not a noble then, because everyone knows nobles will only use a weapon if it can double as an emergency mirror.

She dodges Mainar’s hammer again, and the crowd jeers. If she just had her own gear--

But she doesn’t. She has a shiny sword, heavy armor, and a helmet that cuts off her peripheral vision, and she needs to find a way to make them work for her. 

Or to make Mainar’s work against him.

When Mainar hefts his hammer again, Erida plants her feet, holding her sword as though to block. Just before the hammer is about smash into her head, she drops, the weapon sailing harmlessly over her.

As the hammer’s weight pulls Mainar through the rest of the motion, Erida flips her sword into a reverse grip as she rises and strikes one of the decorative wings on Mainar’s helmet with her pommel. The  _ clang _ rings over the Proving grounds, as the audience laughs and chatters in confusion. They think she missed.

Erida grins. She didn’t miss. 

She falls back as Mainar recovers from the attack, hefting his hammer. He swivels his head back and forth, trying to find Erida, but he can’t see her. He can’t see a fucking  _ thing _ , because her strike twisted his helmet so the open slit for his eyes is now somewhere around his temple. She giggles, the sound echoing around her own helmet. 

As Mainar stumbles around, probably wondering why the lights went out, Erida sticks out a foot, sending the warrior-caste knob tumbling into the dust. She plants a metal boot on his back and raises her shiny sword, now with a scuff on the pommel. She thinks it looks better that way.

There’s only silence for a few seconds as Mainar squirms under her boot. Why aren’t they cheering? She pinned him, fair and square, aren’t those the rules?

Finally, the Provings Master, sounding more surprised than anything, shouts “The winner is Everd of House Bera!”

She hears a whoop that she’s sure is Leske, but there’s only a bit of polite clapping. When she’d pictured herself winning her first Proving, she’d hoped the applause would be roaring, at least. But still. She, Erida Brosca of House Whogivesashit, just won a Proving!

She removes her boot from Mainar’s back. She’d offer him a hand up, but, well, he wouldn’t be able to see it, would he?

Erida looks up to where the Grey Wardens are seated next to the Proving Master. 

 

_ Erida was so busy gaping at the Proving Hall that she didn’t notice the Grey Wardens at first.  _

_ She also didn’t notice when she almost ran into a pillar. _

_ Leske yanked her back. “Play it cool, salroka.” _

_ Shrugging him off, Erida spotted the humans. One was older and huge, with shoulders almost as wide as Erida was tall, and a great bushy gray beard and mustache. He was wearing shiny blue and silver armor. The other was a more reasonable size (at least Erida thought so--how would she know what was reasonable for a human, anyway?) and looked younger, maybe about Erida’s age (wait, do humans age differently than dwarves?). He had no beard and was wearing battered splint mail. She squinted at them, frowning. "They don’t want to let us in here but topsiders are just fine?” _

_ Leske rolled his eyes. “Those are Grey Wardens, Eri.” _

_ Erida stared at him blankly. _

_ Sighing, he explained, “They’re like the Legion of the Dead except they have special powers or something. Rumor is they’re looking for recruits during today’s Provings.” He smirked. “Dare you to go talk to one of them.” _

_ “And say what?” Erida watched as the older Warden bowed to the Provings Master before following him out of the Hall, leaving the younger one to wait. _

_ “I dunno, ‘Welcome to Orzammar, city of of nug-lovers, care to sample our fine dwarven crafts?’” He shoved Erida towards the Warden, laughing at his own shitty joke. “Go, before the Proving Master comes back!” _

_ Snickering, Erida said, “You’ve gotta be kidding, Les, we’ve got stuff to do--” _

_ “Unless you’re scared.” _

_ Well, now she had to do it. _

_ She marched up to the younger Warden and announced, “Welcome to Orzammar, Ser Warden!” If this got her kicked out before they finished the job for Beraht, she’d kill Leske. _

_ The Warden jumped, as though the last thing he was expecting was for anyone to talk to him. “Oh, um, thank you, I--” His face turned bright red as he crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. “Stone, uh--stone met, and blessings on your house.” _

_ Erida bit back a laugh. He must have forgotten what the brand on her face meant. “Well, can’t say I’ve heard that one before.” _

_ Straightening up, his face grew even redder. “I’m sorry, I’ve offended you haven’t I? That’s the greeting Grigor told me to use but I must have misremembered it--” _

_ She laughed. “Wait,  _ you’re _ worried you’ve offended  _ me? _ ” Had no one actually bothered to tell this Warden about the casteless?  _

_ “Haven’t I?” _

_ Taking pity on him, Erida said, “In my part of Orzammar, people just say ‘Hello.’”  _

_ Shoulders slumping, he smiled gratefully. “They say that in my part of Ferelden, too.” He straightened a bit. “My name’s Alistair. I’d add ‘of the Grey Wardens’ but I expect you know that already. It’s nice to meet you…?” _

_ “Erida.” She said, grinning. This was going way better than expected. Leske owed her a drink. “Are you here recruiting?” _

_ The Warden--Alistair--nodded. “From the fighters in the Proving, I’m told. Are you competing?” _

_ As he was speaking, Erida spied the senior Warden and the Provings Master returning. “Thanksfortalkingtomebye!” she shouted over her shoulder as she ran back to Leske. _

_ “Goodbye?” _

_ She and Leske ducked into the passage that led to the competitors’ rooms. “You owe me a beer.” _

_ Leske laughed. “If you can pull this shit off, salroka, I’ll buy you ten.” _

 

Both of the Wardens are clapping for her, and the older Warden leans over and says something to Alistair while they both look at her. Maybe they’re thinking of recruiting her? She’d have to turn it down, of course, but wouldn’t that be something? Her chest swells with pride.

“Everd has won today’s Proving,” bellows the Proving Master, “And will advance to the final bout on the morrow!”

Would she have to return and fight as Everd again tomorrow? Or was Beraht’s coin all on today? Even though she knows it’s nug-brained, part of Erida thrills at the thought of getting to fight against a warrior-caste again.

“The final bout will determine the true champion of the ring, Everd against--”

“Wha, issit my bout already?”

Shit, shit,  _ shit _ . 

Everd, that drunken son of a bitch, stumbles into the ring. There’s no way this is going to turn out well for her.

“Hey!” he shouts, almost falling down. “That’s my armor!”

Heavy armor, really heavy armor, way too heavy for her to run more than ten paces in. She looks around, trying to think of something, anything.

“Who are you?” bellows the Proving Master. “How dare you disrupt this sacred rite?”

Wait, no, this is good, if nobody recognizes Everd when he’s this shitfaced, maybe the guards will haul him off and no one’ll be the wiser until Erida’s long gone--

“I recognize that man!”

She’d forgotten about Mainar. He’s gotten his helmet off. Shit,  _ shit! _

“That’s Everd!” Mainar turns to Erida, glaring. “Who is this imposter?”

The Proving Master looks back and forth between Erida and Everd (who probably is the most confused he’s been in his sodding life), then points to Erida and announces, “Remove your helmet, warrior, and let all who watched you see your face.”

Putting on her best annoyed noble voice (and lowering it several octaves), Erida huffs, “I will not be insulted in this manner! This drunkard is an imposter who insults my ancestors!” Please, please, please--

“If you are truly Everd of House Bera, show us your face and remove all doubt!” the Provings Master proclaims.

The guards at the edges of the arena start moving in, hands going to their weapons.

Fuck it, then. May as well make it good.

Erida throws the down the sword, then removes the helmet, throwing that to the dirt too. “My name is Erida Brosca, I’m casteless, and I just beat the best the Warrior Caste has to offer!”

Well,  _ that _ gets a much bigger response from the crowd.

As all the casted in the stands jeer and shriek, Erida gives the Provings Master a middle finger salute, and the last thing she sees before the guards knock her out is the big Grey Wardens holding his gut as he laughs.


	6. Erida's Proving, Part 2

Erida wakes to her head pounding like it’s been hit by a hammer. Which, maybe it has. She’s not sure what knocked her out, in the end. She does remember giving the Provings Master the finger, though. Not the worst thing to die for, if she thinks about it.

Sitting up slowly, Erida looks around, getting more confused by the second. This cell is way too filthy to be part of Orzammar proper. Whoever put her in the cell took away the armor, which makes sense, but they stuck her in some gross undershirt that’s way too big for her. And she’s not wearing any shoes. A casted prison would never do that--they’d never miss a chance to rub in how superior they are.

Erida is in duster territory. Which means this is Beraht’s cell.

So much for hoping for a quick death.

Swearing under her breath, Erida stands, picking her way carefully to the bars of the cell where there’s some light. She doesn’t want to step on any rocks--or worse--with her bare feet.

“Eri, s’that you?”

“Leske? Fuck, they got you too?”

“As soon as everyone saw your brand, the place went mad. Shut all the doors, examined everyone for family and caste.”

If Erida gets right up against the bars, she can see Leske, dressed in the same filthy cast-offs as her, in the cell adjacent.

“One of the guards recognized me and figured we must be working together,” he continues. “Spent a few hours interrogating me about who put us up to this. I think they knew, you know. About Beraht.”

“Doesn’t explain how we wound up in Dust Town.” Erida looks around the room outside of her cell. It’s just as gross and dimly lit. There’s an empty cell across from her, and a curving passage leading Ancestors know where. On a chair in the far corner is some duster sharpening his axe, probably supposed to be guarding them. Near him, she can just make out a few crates filled with junk, and thinks she spots the gleam of her axes. Leske must have had her gear with him when he was arrested. Now if she can just get to them…

“Is it that surprising Beraht has a few guards on his payroll?”

“Guess not." Eyeing the guard, she lowers her voice. "Got any ideas ‘bout how we’re getting out of here?” She pulls at the bars of her cell a bit, testing their strength.

Leske snorts, but he also lowers his voice. “Not by pulling the door off its hinges, I can tell you that, salroka.”

Letting go of the bars, Erida plants her hands on her hips. “You gotta better idea, smartass?”

Leske shrugs. “They took my lockpicks," he says, as though that’s the end of the it.

Erida rolls her eyes and takes another look around. Nothing in her cell but rubble. Her gear's well out of reach. Eyes turning to the guard again, Erida gets an idea. A pretty stupid idea, but it's better than sitting and waiting for death with her thumb up her ass.

After shooting a wink at Leske, Erida starts coughing. Nothing dainty either, choking, hacking, retching, making as much noise as she can, all the while keeping one eye on the guard. Brows furrowed, he runs his whetstone more sharply against his axe, looking more and more like he’s ready to use it. Good.

Erida stops coughing and takes a deep breath. Just as the guard’s shoulders fall, she lets out her loudest, nastiest retch yet. 

Flinching so violently he almost falls out of his chair, the guard glares at her and stomps over to her cell. “Stop making so much noise! You’re giving me a headache.”

“That’s how it started with her you know,” says Leske as Erida continues retching. “First there’s the headache, then the coughing, and then the rectal bleeding starts--”

The second the guard turns to Leske with a stupid, terrified look on his face, Erida’s hand shoots out from between the bars of the cell, grabbing him by the collar and slamming his head into the iron bars. Out cold, he slumps to the floor.

“Not bad, salroka,” Leske says as she reaches through the bars and unhooks the key ring from the guard’s belt.

“I’d say not so bad yourself, Les, but I think the rectal bleeding was overdoing it.” After a few tries, Erida finds the right key and her cell door clicks open.

“Are you kidding? Did you see his face? Bastard almost shit his pants!”

“Shut, up,” Erida says, snickering, as she unlocks his door. “Let’s get dressed and get outta here.”

They dress quickly. Thank the Ancestors Leske had the sense to put her gear in a rucksack and take it with him instead of leaving it in Everd’s quarters. Nice, flexible leather--she’ll take that over stupid ornamental plate any day. She gives her twin axes an affectionate twirl as Leske finishes belting on his daggers. “You hear them say anything about Rica when they brought you in?”

“No, but you said she’d be with that noble of hers all day, right? Beraht’s not going to touch her while she’s in the Diamond Quarter.” Leske’s face twists in worry. As many shitty jokes he makes about how good-looking Rica is, Erida knows he thinks of Rica as family as much as she does.

Nodding, Erida starts down the passage out. “Then we need to find her before Beraht does.”

Leske catches her by the shoulder. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Eri?” Erida would normally shake him off, but his voice has gone serious, and Leske’s only ever serious when it counts.

“What?” She turns to him, axes in her fists, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Serious or not, they need to  _ go. _

“We can’t just leave him here.” Leske points with his dagger to the guard, still slumped against his cell. “I can take care of it, I just need you to wait for me a sec.”

Erida feels a weight curling around her chest. “He’s out cold, Les. We don’t need to.”

“We can’t leave any witnesses.”

“We can lock him in the cell, we don’t--”

“Erida,” he snaps. “There’s no guarantee we can get to Rica before Beraht does. He’s sunk too much coin into her to kill her over you losing him a few sovereigns. But if he finds out we killed his men?” Leske sheathes one of his daggers so he can put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but his eyes are hard and his other hand still grips his weapon. “Are you really going to risk Rica’s life for some duster you don’t even know?”

Erida stares past him, at the man sprawled on the floor. She’s killed before, of course. It’s part of the job. But it was only when she was attacked first, when it was kill or be killed. She could forgive herself for that. It took a while, sometimes. Sometimes their faces show up in her nightmares, but she can manage it. But this man is defenseless, won’t even see the face of his killer. For all she knows, he’s like them, just doing what he has to do to get by. “It’s not right.”

“I’m not asking you to do it, Eri. Just turn around and wait.” Leske squeezes her shoulder once before letting go and turning to the unconscious guard. He knew what her decision would be before she did.

She turns round and sends a silent prayer to the stone. This is for Rica. For her big sister, more a mother than her actual mother. Surely Erida can be forgiven for that?

 

_ Erida and Leske, both eleven and running through the back alleys of Dust Town, as the shouting and the sound of clanging swords followed them. Erida was faster, and she led them to her house. She pounded her fist on the door, praying Rica was there to let them in and it wasn’t just Mother, either too drunk or too miserable to get out of bed. _

_ The shouting was getting louder. Erida hit the door harder. _

_ Finally, she heard the bar being removed inside. The door opened, and she’d never been so happy to see her sister’s stupid-pretty red hair and pursed lips. “Erida, what in the--” She cut off when she heard the shouting and metal clanging. “The Carta’s fighting again aren’t they?” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed both Erida and Leske by their scruffs and hauled them inside, slamming the door and barring it. _

_ Erida collapsed into a chair, legs shaky from sprinting all the way there. _

_ Leske stayed frozen by the door, staring at Rica like a nug caught stealing food. _

_ “You’re Leske, right?” asked Rica. Though she was only sixteen, Erida had seen her sister make men with beards down to their knees shake in their boots. _

_ “Yes,” squeaked Leske. Erida made fun of him for that for weeks afterwards. _

_ “You’ve got anyone who'll be worried about you if you don’t come home?” _

_ He shook his head. “I don’t got one. A home, that is, I mean--” He gulped. “Ma’am.” _

_ Rica ruffled his hair, short back then. “Well, this one’s not much, but you’re welcome to it when you need one.” Rica returned to the stew she must have been tending before Erida had started pounding on the door. _

_ Erida giggled at how Leske’s eyes followed her sister like she was some kind of Paragon. _

_ “You’re welcome to dinner,” said Rica, shooting Erida a glare. “And to stay the night if those nug-brains are still at it by then.” _

_ “Thank you,” whispered Leske. _

_ “Don’t thank her yet,” said Erida. “Her stew tastes like boiled shoe leather.” _

_ Rica threw a rag at Erida’s head, who ducked, laughing. _

 

As much as she hates that Leske got caught because of her, Erida’s really  _ really _ glad she doesn’t have to fight her way through Beraht’s lair alone. She would’ve been dead several times over from traps that Leske spotted, yanking her back just before she broke the tripwire. She also would have gotten lost, forced to wander the maze of passageways, made worse by the fact that she can’t pick a lock to save her life. Not to mention all the times she would have gotten flanked, instead only noticing when a spray of blood hit her back and she turned to see Leske, daggers bloody, smirking. “Getting slow, salroka.”

Mostly, though, it’s easier for Erida to keep going, to not think about the people she’s killing, when her best friend’s at her side.

Erida knows she has to keep going, for Leske and Rica and herself. But if she thinks too much about it, she’s going to puke.

Leske doesn’t let on he knows, but he keeps the stupid jokes coming, and Erida’s grateful.

Even with Leske’s skills, navigating the tunnels where Beraht’s set up shop is slow and tiring. Several times they dead end in animal pens and storage rooms. When they finally reach a door that Leske says must lead somewhere important because it actually has a decent lock on it, Erida is aching all over and would kill for a skin of water. She has a huge bruise spreading across her right thigh and a cut across her palm that won’t stop throbbing.

“Ready?” asks Leske, as the lock clicks.

She tightens her grip on her axes and thinks of Rica. “Let’s get this over with.”


	7. Erida's Proving, Part 3

Compared to the narrow tunnels they’ve made their way through, this room is huge, with a high ceiling and smaller, branching alcoves. There are a few glowstones in the walls, but they don’t fully push back the gloom. Erida and Leske see Beraht before he sees them.

“I’m cutting the whore free unless she brings back something good today.” Beraht’s talking to two dusters, probably more underlings. “She’s not worth having to deal with that freak of a sister. If she can’t stay in her place, I don’t need precious Rica either.”

Erida tenses, but Leske holds her back, creeping silently closer, sticking to the shadows.

“Rica? That the one you got all done up in lace?” says one of the underlings. “I’ve been wanting to get my hands on that.”

The other one laughs. “I know what you mean!”

Something tells Erida that she won’t feel so guilty about killing these two. She creeps after Leske, knuckles white around her axes.

Beraht shrugs. “She’s yours if you want her.”

Leske stops, crouching behind a long table, Erida close behind. He signals her to wait until the underlings leave.

“And let me tell you, boys,” Beraht sneers, licking his lips. “It tastes as good as it looks.”

With a shout, both Erida and Leske burst from behind the table. They’re not going to wait while these bastards have the  _ fucking nerve _ to talk about Rica like that. They will make them pay,  _ she _ will make them all pay. 

One of her axes splits the head of a duster, crunch of bone and splat of brain. Leske’s dagger cuts the throat of the other, blood spraying. Only Beraht is left, but his shield and sword are raised. He is ready for them.

“I always knew you two’re more trouble than you’re worth.” 

 

_ “I can’t believe you let that duster walk,” Leske said as they left Tapster’s. “You know that was suicide if Beraht finds out?”  _

_ She set a quick pace for Figor’s Imports. “He’s not going to find out.” Or at least she really,  _ really _ hoped he wouldn’t. _

_ “Eri, I know--” Leske sighed, and she could tell he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “I know you have your  _ code _ or whatever, and that’s fine, but sometimes you need to just suck it up and do it. Or just turn around, and I’ll do it for you.” _

_ “It’s not a code,” Erida mumbled, looking away. “A code’s something you choose, isn’t it? If I could choose, I’d be like you. I wouldn’t give two shits.” _

_ “Eri.” Leske halted, grabbing her arm. _

_ “I’m sorry, Les, I didn’t mean--” _

_ “No, you’re right, I don’t give two shits.” His face was serious. “I don’t give two shits about some cheating cloudgazer--” _

_ “Oskias, Les, he has a name--” _

_ “I don’t care!” His grip on her arm was hard enough to hurt. “You’re my best friend, Eri, but you need to stop making me choose between saving my skin and saving yours!” _

_ Erida didn’t--couldn’t--say anything. Her gut felt like it was twisting into knots. _

_ His voice softened. “You gotta stop feeling guilty for doing what you have to. All you’re doing is beating yourself up.” _

_ Erida didn’t think often of the brand on her face, but when she did, it didn’t feel like a punishment. It felt like a prediction.  _

 

She is casteless, and there is no way for her to exist without being a murderer.

And, right now, she doesn’t fucking care.

Beraht is skilled, but there are still two of them. Leske almost gets him, but Beraht bashes him with his shield, sending him flying.

Erida takes the opening. With an upward swing she lodges one axe in his armpit. As he curses she uses her leverage and swings her other axe at his neck. Blood splatters her as she shouts, wordless and furious. Beraht’s head falls to the floor with a wet thump. 

Leske lets out a whoop. “Didya see him there, all ‘you’re more trouble than you’re worth?’ And you just charged in and sodding slaughtered him!”

She pulls her axe from Beraht’s headless body. Shit.  _ Fuck _ . His blood is in her mouth, metallic and thick and it’s all she can smell--

“You have to be the luckiest duster in Orzammar, Beraht’s dead and we’re standing here! Hail to the fucking king!”

She should feel guilty for this, shouldn’t she? A good person would feel guilty. A good person wouldn’t feel relieved at the sound of a cut-off head hitting the floor. A good person wouldn’t want to spit on a corpse.

“Hey, Eri.”

Erida tears her eyes from Beraht, looking at Leske.

“Could you tell Rica I killed him? I mean, it doesn’t do you any good if she thinks you’re the most virile warrior in all the Stone.” He smirks and he jokes, but Erida’s fought alongside him long enough to know what he’s really asking.  _ We can pretend you turned around. We can forget it happened like this _ .

“You really want to ask me that when I’m holding a weapon?”  _ It’s too late. It’s already done. _

“Fair point.”  _ Don’t say I didn’t offer _ .

She finds a rag and cleans herself up while Leske searches the room for valuables, pocketing anything he can carry. The taste of blood not her own won’t go away, no matter how many times she spits.

When Leske’s pockets are full and jangling they take the only other passage out of the room. They end up at some kind of door. Erida can hear voices behind it. She thinks about waiting until whoever’s speaking leaves, but she needs to get to Rica. Needs to see she’s safe. Needs to see this was worth it.

She nods to Leske. Together, they push the door open enough to look into the next room.

Erida isn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this.

They’ve wound up in Figor’s Imports (so that’s how Beraht got in and out of Dust Town unseen!), and the shop is filled with three guards, the two Grey Wardens, the Proving Master, Mainar, and a very flustered shopkeep.

“I swear I don’t know--”

“We have a witness who saw two bodies being carried into your shop--” growls one of the guards, gesturing to someone behind him. Erida follows the motion and spots a flash of red hair near the shop’s door.

“Rica!” yells Erida without thinking, shoving the door the rest of the way open and starting to go to her sister before Mainar shouts “There she is!”, drawing his hammer (and causing two of the guards to stumble back) before realizing there’s no room to wield it in the cramped shop.

“Drop your weapons,” says the Proving Master, managing to at least sound like less of an idiot than Mainar. “We will use force if you resist.”

Erida slowly sets her axes on the floor, and sees Leske shrink back into the shadows of the doorway out of the corner of her eye. At least he still has a chance to run. There’s no room for her to maneuver, and Rica will get hurt if a fight breaks out. Talking her way out of this is going to be near impossible, but she’s going give it her damndest.

“Now, now, boys.” She puts on her most charming smile and sees Rica bury her face in her hands. “Is that any way to talk to the woman who just killed Beraht, Orzammar’s most elusive Carta boss, for you?” 

The Provings Master raises his voice. “You do not speak until the shapers have judged you!”

“Just a minute,” says the elder of the Grey Wardens as if he is doing nothing more than commenting on the price of glowstones. “But didn’t you say that this Beraht might have arranged their convenient escape?”

“Regardless, the penalty for impersonating a high caste is death.” 

Rica flinches. Erida squares her shoulders.

The younger Warden--what’s his name? Alexander? Alistair?--clears his throat and says, “This Beraht was a criminal, right? Seems to me like she did you a favor.”

The Provings Master grits his teeth, like he really wants to tell off the Grey Warden, but can’t because  _ honor _ . Shaking his head and raising his hands as though telling everyone to quiet down even though no one is speaking, he glares at Erida. “Beraht is truly dead?”

“Beraht would have butchered me if I hadn’t killed him first,” says Erida, trying to ignore the taste of his blood still in her mouth.

The Proving Master starts to say something else (probably something not very nice going by how red his face is), but cuts off when the elder Grey Warden lays a massive hand on his shoulder. “It seems to me this woman has proven her bravery and skill more than once.” He nods to the other Warden, like some kind of signal.

The younger Warden (oh, what was his name? She knows it starts with an ‘a.’) straightens and clears his throat. Stiffly and nervously, as though he’s practiced beforehand, he says, “The Grey Wardens hereby invoke the Rite of Conscription for--” He pauses, face turning red. “For Eh--Er…” 

Erida chokes back a laugh. This blighter forgot her name, didn’t he? The laughter fades, though, when her eyes dart to Rica. Even if this is what Erida dared to hope for, she can’t really leave her sister behind. Not when she’s needed. 

But Rica doesn’t look panicked, she’s--smiling? “Erida Brosca,” says Rica.

The young Warden nods to Rica in thanks. “For Erida Brosca.”

The Proving Master starts blustering louder than ever, but all Erida can do is stare at her sister in shock. Rica pulls something from the pocket of her dress. A golden ring--no, not just any ring, a  _ signet _ ring. It’s too far away for Erida to see the crest and guess which house it’s from, but only nobles carry signet rings. Rica must have been right, when she’d told Beraht that morning that she’d found a noble. She and mother would be taken care of.

“Do you accept?” asks the older Gray Warden, silencing the Proving Master with a painful looking squeeze of the shoulder. 

“Go,” mouths Rica.

Erida spares a glance back to the secret door, which has crept its way closed at some point. Leske must have heard the Grey Wardens recruit her and decided to escape, knowing she was safe. She looks to her sister one last time, then to the Wardens. Throat thick, she nods. Nods again. Croaks out, “Yes!”

“Pick up your blades, then, and say your goodbyes. We leave for Ostagar immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life and medical issues got in the way, but I'm back! For now, at least. I've got the next few chapters lined up and hopefully will be able to write more regularly again.


	8. Theron's Blight, Part 1

Duncan has been gone for nearly a full day now, and Theron has made so many arrows that they barely all fit into his quiver, killed three rabbits, skinned and cooked said rabbits, cleaned the pelts, and gathered more canavaris than he knows what to do with. He still doesn’t feel any of this sickness he supposedly has. Not for the first time since leaving the Brecilian forest, Theron thinks of slipping away, returning to his clan and leaving this shem nonsense behind.

He knows it’s foolish, of course. As little as Theron trusts Duncan, Keeper Marethari said he spoke the truth. There is a sickness, a blight, in his body, even if he can’t feel it yet. 

Not to mention the clan must be long gone by now, on their way to Gwaren if they haven’t arrived already. Maybe they’re all on a ship now, bound for Kirkwall or Ostwick or Wycome. Maybe they found Tamlen, safe and sound, just after Theron left, and he’s with them, seeing the ocean for the first time with Merrill and Fenarel. 

And maybe the Halla have grown wings and are taking the whole clan to Arlathan.

Theron abandons the pelt he’s been cleaning and paces restlessly. The sun is nearing its height and still no sight of Duncan. The Warden said he would likely be back some time after nightfall, but that was yesterday. Night has long since came and went.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Theron considers his options. Entering the city is a possibility, but a foolish one. Theron’s never even set foot in a shem village, let alone a city as big as Denerim. He would be lost in an instant, and that’s not even considering what Duncan said about how elvhen are treated within its walls.

Trying to find his way to the Free Marches would be equally foolish. Even if his sickness isn’t as dire as Duncan claims, he would have no way of paying for passage or locating his clan. 

Theron decides to wait for Duncan until dusk, and if he still hasn’t arrived, to go on to Ostagar by himself. The other Wardens there must know what needs to be done about this illness. 

The waiting feels like it’s killing him more than the blight.

After pacing a bit more, shooting a few arrows into a tree trunk at fifty paces, retrieving them, and pacing some more, Theron returns to cleaning the rabbit pelt. It’s a slow and largely pointless process without the necessary tools to turn the pelt into something useful, but it’s something to do. And Theron needs to be doing something, anything. If he’s doing nothing, his mind will wander to Tamlen.

Not that it isn’t already.

 

_ “We should tell the Keeper about this.” Theron lagged behind Tamlen, hand resting on his bow, though he hadn’t drawn it yet. The clan had been camped in the same spot for several months, but he’d somehow never been in this part of the forest before. Something was off, something about the sound, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. It made his ears twitch. _

_ Tamlen laughed, carefree as ever. “And if we run back to tell her, only to have it turn out to be some nonsense those shems spun to get away?” He took Theron’s hand, drawing it away from the bow, and laced his fingers through his. “Come on, Lethallin. Just a bit farther.” _

_ Theron’s ears warmed at the contact. Though he still felt uneasy, he let himself be pulled along. _

_ They followed a narrow, rutted path that wound downwards, as per the shem’len’s instructions. When they spotted the entrance, half covered with vines, Theron realized what was off. He could hear no animals. No chirps or growls or skittering paws. Just an eerie silence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. _

_ “Tamlen…” Theron halted, pulling back on Tamlen until he stopped too. “Something's wrong. We should go back.” _

_ Tamlen smiled, eyes crinkling in that way that had made Theron follow him through every ill-conceived scheme and adventure since they were children. “Just a peek, Theron. We’ll be careful.” _

_ Tamlen was humoring him, he could tell. Theron had always been the better hunter of the two. Tamlen had too much energy--he was always  fidgeting or chattering. He didn't know how to listen, not like Theron did. Theron could be so still it was like the world forgot he was there.  _

_ He knew Tamlen was going into that cave whether he followed or not. But of course he would follow Tamlen. He always did. “Alright.”  _

_ Tamlen grinned, and brought Theron’s hand to his mouth for a kiss. “Let’s see what treasure those shem’len found, Lethallin.” _

 

The sun is at its peak when Theron hears footsteps. 

He’s up in an instant, arrow nocked and bow half drawn, before he spies Duncan’s tarnished armor. Lowering his bow, Theron nods in acknowledgment before starting to strike his small camp. “You’re late.” He quickly banks the embers of the fire he made the night before.

“My apologies. There were...complications.”

Theron shoulders his pack, readjusting his quiver to balance the weight. “Did you find who you were looking for?”

“See for yourself.”

Theron looks up to see Duncan gesturing some ways behind him, to an elven woman. She’s standing so far away from Duncan that Theron hadn’t seen her at first. She’s tiny, and wearing a ragged brown dress that blends in with the surrounding trees, though that effect seems unwitting. Her eyes dart about her surroundings, as she takes tiny, tense steps.

This is who Duncan wanted them to detour to Denerim to collect? She looks barely older than a child and about as competent as one, too. Less so. Surely even a child isn’t this scared of of every gust of wind and snapping twig. 

“Would you like to introduce yourself?” Duncan asks her gently.

The woman’s eyes snap to the human, glaring with such vitriol that Theron’s opinion of her improves slightly. She has a backbone, at least.

Duncan sighs, as though he’d expected this. “This is Cerynth Tabris, formerly of Denerim’s alienage. She has enormous skill with the dagger, and I believe will make an invaluable recruit for the Grey Wardens.” He pauses as though he expects her to say something, but her glare just intensifies, something Theron didn’t think was possible. Duncan sighs, and continues. “And this is--”

“My name is Theron Mahariel of Clan Sabrae,” Theron interrupts, ignoring Duncan and staring at the woman--Cerynth. “Andaran atish’an.”

She turns to him, and her glare melts away, to be replaced with--astonishment? Her eyes widen and her ears perk up. “Are you--you’re Dalish? Really Dalish?”

Theron’s taken aback for a moment by her accent--he’d been expecting one like Duncan’s, but hers is more jarring, somehow, with strange, twisting vowels and muddled consonants.

Duncan chuckles. “I had forgotten that you have likely never seen an elf of the Dalish clans.” 

Cerynth’s ears immediately jerk downward, plastered to her head again as her expression closes off into something guarded and angry, the moment of wonder gone. 

Something about Duncan’s words rubs Theron the wrong way. It’s strange enough for a flat-ear to treat him like some sort of spectacle, but it’s something else entirely for a shem'len. He pulls up the hood of his overshirt and picks up his bow. “We should get moving.”

They make their way back to the road in tense silence, Duncan leading the way with Theron and Cerynth trailing. By the time they exit the forest Theron is about ready to strangle the woman. She somehow manages to step on every twig she comes across, and shrieks when a grass snake slithers over her boot. How in the world is this flat-ear going to face down darkspawn if she's frightened of harmless animals?

Duncan leads them to a village just outside of Denerim’s walls. Not so much a village as a stop for travellers before entering the city proper, or at least that's what Duncan told him when they’d stopped here a few days ago. The Warden had offered to pay to put Theron up in an inn while he entered the city to his recruit, but the thought of sleeping under a wooden roof surrounded by shem’len had made Theron want to throw up.

Even walking through the settlement puts him on edge. The buildings tower, unnatural in their permanence, though he knows they’re nothing compared to the wall of the city still easily visible even for its distance. Houses crowd the road, cutting off the horizon, their walls built from whole trunks of dead trees, still encased in bark. Theron can see figures inside, shadows behind hung cloth and glass. Their movement itches at the periphery of his vision, but he tells himself they are not an immediate threat.

Outside the houses, shem’len men bustle about, loading and unloading things from carts, all of them huge and burly, with unruly hair growing out of their faces and beady eyes that follow Theron as he trails behind Duncan. Cerynth seems more sure-footed now that they’re out of the forest, but her shoulders are hunched and she walks much closer to Theron than before, staring at the ground. 

“Do shem’len always stare at elvhen this way?” Theron mutters to her as eyes follow them through the village.   


Cerynth’s eyes flick up to him. “I think it’s more to do with your bare feet than your ears,” she responds, voice low. “The bow doesn’t help, either. Is it a Dalish thing?”

Theron’s eyes dart from Cerynth to Duncan walking ahead of them, to two shem’len passing too close on the right, to a dog splashing through a puddle and disappearing around a corner, back to Cerynth. “The bow?”

She blinks. “The bare feet.”

Theron glances again at the shem’len, focusing on their feet instead of their faces. She’s right--they’re all wearing boots with absurdly thick soles. Peering down, he sees Cerynth’s wearing the same sort. “Wait, you all wear those all the time? How do you hunt?” No wonder she’d been making so much noise in the forest.

“Hunt?” She looks confused, cocking an ear. “Hunt what?”

He’s spared from answering ( _What does she mean hunt what?_ _Does the whole city live on grain?_ ) by Duncan gesturing them forward as he ducks into a building. Theron follows, Cerynth close behind.

The smell hits him first, similar to Halla grounds, but unnatural in its intensity. His nose wrinkles as he takes in the sight of horses, dozens of them, penned in between wooden half-walls with barely enough space to move. Huge, and smelly, with braided manes and wild eyes. Theron’s only seen them from a distance before. They’re much bigger than he thought they were. They have none of the intelligence in their eyes that his clan’s Halla do. He wonders if that’s in their nature or if they’ve all gone mad for living trapped in their own filth, without grass and without sky.

Duncan exchanges a few words and coins with the human that seems to run the place before turning to Theron. “The journey to Ostagar will take too long on foot, and all three of us cannot fit on one horse. Let us hope riding a horse is a similar enough experience to riding a Halla.”


End file.
